opposite the Tuileries gardens—the bright sun of France shining upon us
all day long, and a month before us in which to survey the astounding
scene. For astounding it certainly is, if you remember how often these
beautiful streets have been filled with thousands of infuriated
citizens, cutting and shooting each other; cannon resounding in all
parts of the town, and blood flowing in torrents over the pavement, and
all these horrors occurring not in the distant reigns of Charles the
Ninth, or Henry the Third; but a year ago,—when this old hat was
new—some months after our new drawing-room paper was put on, which is
still in its first gloss. And now look at the place, nothing but peace
and gaiety apparently were ever heard of here. The people walk about as
if every man was just let out for a holiday, and requested to enjoy it
as much as he could. The shops are shining with gold and silver, with
laces, and silks, and satins, in every window; the blue sky bends over
all without a cloud, and we will forth into the gardens of the Tuileries
to see the world. What a pleasant, bright, glittering world it is. There
are groups scattered all about in the shady walks, under these crowded
trees. A gentleman, his wife, three children, and a maid in a
long-flapped white cap, are all as busy as if they were in their own
house. The mother is sewing, and hearing the eldest girl her lesson; the
maid is also active with her needle; the two smaller children are poring
over the same book; and the father, with his back to a tree, and his hat
over his brows, is deep in the milk-and-water politics of the Assemblée,
or the platitudes of that wonderful misnomer, the _Constitutionnel_.
Now, all these people have left their _appartement_ for the day. The key
is in the coat-pocket of the absorbed politician; they will dine in the
quietest and most economical way at some humble _restaurant_, and
returning to their position in the gardens, they will enjoy the gay
scene before them, stroll from fountain to fountain, or from statue to
statue, listen to the band, and finally, when the shades of night begin
to fall, they will retire to their modest lodging, having spent a day of
open-air enjoyment, which makes them utterly independent of the size or
situation of the rooms they nominally occupy. This seems the mode of
life of an immense number of the Parisians. Houses seem mere
accommodations for the night; for, from morn till eve, they are in as
full possession of the Tuileries as if they had been crowned monarchs of
France—their empire in the Luxembourg gardens, there’s none to
dispute—and a few sous puts them at any time into the plenary usufruct
of St Cloud or Versailles. Now, who are all those people who disport
themselves in the sunshine? Are they gentlemen living on the small
remains of their property, or shopkeepers out for a ploy, or visitors
from the country, or play-actors retiring to study their parts, or
literary men catching glimpses of life? We confess ourselves utterly
unable to answer these questions. Perhaps the numberless groups we see
consist of specimens of all those classes—small _rentiers_ economising,
flourishing _epiciers_ relaxing, country visitors reposing; but,
whatever they may be, they present the appearance of the most careless,
happy population, ever known. It is a complete “cure for the heartache”
to walk down these murmuring avenues at any hour from ten till seven.
There is such an amazing amount of enjoyment in the indolent repose of
the seniors, the merry plays of the children, the air, the trees, the
flowers, the company walking before you in endless procession, as if
intended entirely for your gratification, that again we go back with
astonishment to the appalling consideration, that less than a year ago
there were battle, murder, and sudden death in all parts of this gay
metropolis; and, in less than another year, they may be all let loose
again. Those very idlers probably would be on the top of a barricade,
and, according to circumstances, either installed in a few days in the
Hôtel de Ville or on their way to Cayenne. So we will shake off these
disagreeable impressions by walking down the centre walk, and admiring
the pillar of Luxor in the Place de la Concorde. This is agreed, in all
quarters, to be the finest site in Europe; and all the accessories are
worthy of their situation. The fountains are very fine, and give issue
to a body of water which would drown the dumb-waiters in Trafalgar
Square. At the four ends are the Tuileries, the Madeleine, the Arc de
Triomphe, and the Corps Legislatif—four specimens of building, we will
be bold to say, unequalled—taken separately, and in their joint effect
as seen from this noble centre, the greatest triumphs of taste and
architecture the world contains. The spaces are so vast that the Luxor
column, though seventy-two feet high, and raised on a plinth of twenty,
appears dumpy and out of proportion. We doubt the congruity of Egyptian
obelisks in the midst of our modern styles. It carries the mind too far
away. Grecian temples retain their place because they have at no time
been lost sight of, and have often been reproduced; but this Egyptian
monument, rising all of a sudden like an animated mummy, is frightful
for its very resuscitation. Let it lie like a well-preserved corpse in
the sands of its native country, and we can read of it without a
shudder; but really, to look on this tremendous stone, set up amidst the
shouts of a hundred and fifty thousand spectators in 1836, and see it
looking as juvenile and unwrinkled as if it had been quarried on
Montmartre, is a sort of anachronism which jars upon the taste. If the
wretched thing looked old, the case would be different; but it looks
newer than the Arc de Triomphe; the inscriptions on it are finer in the
edge, and deeper cut than the victories recorded on its rival; and yet
has any one reflected on the antiquity of this monster? It was set up in
Luxor amid the shouts of more than a hundred and fifty thousand
spectators in the reign of Rameses of Egypt, three thousand two hundred
years ago,—a few years after Pharaoh was drowned in the Red Sea, and
while Joshua was conquering the tribes of Palestine. This is such a
confusion of dates and eras that we wish the pillar were removed—removed
to some granite hill as old as itself, and no more permitted to put our
perishing materials to shame by parading its immortal youth unhurt
amidst the war of elements.
We will therefore, by way of treating ourselves to the sight of a little
decay, proceed to inspect the Invalides—a noble palace for worn-out
soldiers and sailors,—not so magnificent outside as our unequalled
Greenwich, but more richly supported, and giving refuge and maintenance
to a much greater number of men. A stout old fragment of the Grand Army
showed us round the building. Nearly three thousand men find
accommodation within the walls, tolerably fed while in health, and most
carefully attended to when ill. They are apparently admissible at an
earlier age, and with fewer titles to compassion, than is the case at
either Greenwich or Chelsea—many of them were hale-looking active men,
of not more than forty-five years old, with many campaigns in them yet;
and all of them, except the maimed and very old, had the buoyant step
and intelligent look, which, we confess with some regret, is the
characteristic of the French _militaire_. Whether the old warrior who
did the honours on this occasion was a chosen representative of his
class, we do not know, but he had the politeness of a marshal of Louis
XIV., and the information of a member of the Institute. The little
biographical hints he gave of the different governors of the
institution, when we entered the room adorned with their portraits, were
very short, sharp, and decisive. Some of the older race, dukes and
marquises who had obtained the office by their influence and rank, he
passed over with a magnanimous disdain, merely enumerating their names
and titles,—but when others of more distinction came under his notice,
he sounded forth the names of their victories as if they had only
recently appeared in the _Gazette_; and this is a peculiarity which we
observed among all classes of the French population. They seem to keep a
catalogue of their glories from Chalons to Isly, and remember the
smaller actions of Condé and Turenne with an accuracy which few
Englishmen of a humble class possess of Salamanca or Waterloo. In the
chapel are suspended flags of all nations conquered in war. There are
standards of Austria, and Prussia and Russia, and Africa in great
profusion. We looked round with great satisfaction as we failed to
discover the Union Jack among these spoils of victory.—“You don’t happen
to have any English specimens here?” we asked with a chuckle, which we
felt at the moment was horribly impolite.
“Look,” he said, “high up, just under the roof”—and there we certainly
saw a small bit of bunting which it was impossible to mistake for
anything but the meteor flag.
“And how and where was that taken?” we inquired, somewhat crestfallen.
“It was seized at Dantzic,” he replied, “when we took Monsieur Corbet
prisoner.”
There was nothing more to be said; we had never heard of any battle or
victory at Dantzic; but then we are so apt to forget those military
events, and the French are so accurate. We had and have no books of
reference; but we heard from a friend that the flag fell into the hands
of the French when they garrisoned Dantzic at the time of the Moscow
campaign, and it had formed part of the colours of a mercantile brig, at
that time in the harbour, commanded by a skipper of the name of Corbet.
But our venerable guide seemed to forget Vittoria and Waterloo when
gazing on this proof of his countrymen’s prowess; and as it was the only
one they could show, we were well pleased to leave him to his triumphant
meditations. The tomb of the Emperor was under repair, and could not be
seen; but a bust of Napoleon was dwelt upon with great admiration, while
a companion bust of the nephew was passed by almost in silence. It is
observable, that whenever a Frenchmen speaks of the Emperor, he means
our old enemy Buonaparte—when he alludes to his present governor, he has
to describe him as Napoleon the Third; but it struck us, wherever we
went, that the little Corsican has a more abiding presence among the
present generation than the living individual who has inherited his
power and name. His statues and monuments are everywhere—songs are sung
about him—plays are perpetually acted in which he is introduced; and
altogether it needs a very slight effort of the imagination to suppose
that he is still inhabiting the Tuileries, and ready to launch his
thunderbolts all over the world. But the fact of his nephew occupying
the throne of France is the most wonderful proof of his still existing
ascendancy over the French mind. It seems as much in accordance with the
“eternal fitness of things,” that a Napoleon should rule in France, as
it was in ancient days that a Cæsar should reign at Rome. No matter
whether he was an Augustus or a Nero, he was of the true master’s blood;
and Julius was honoured in the vilest of his successors. When this
stream of hereditary adulation in France will be dried up, it is
impossible to say. It is just possible the fame of the great founder may
go on increasing in a greater ratio than the deterioration of his
descendants, so that what is lost at one end may be supplied at the
other. But surely cockhats and little grey greatcoats can’t last for
ever—some glimpses of fact will steal in upon the most benighted of his
admirers, and awaken them to a knowledge that, even in military affairs,
he was oftener repulsed and defeated than any great conqueror who ever
lived, and that in politics, foreign and domestic, he was the most cruel
and unprincipled tyrant “whereof the world holds record.” Those merry,
lively, vain French people have entirely forgotten all his reverses. His
Moscows, Leipsics, and fifty other defeats, have all disappeared. Even
Waterloo is looked on as a miraculous incident, against which it is
impossible to reason, but which tells nothing against his fame; and he
stands on the top of the column in the Place Vendôme surrounded by a
halo of victories, unclouded by a single check. This is the most
honourable feature in the French character in its connection with
Buonaparte, and finding no counterpart, we are afraid, in our own. If
Nelson had been defeated at Trafalgar—if Wellington had been defeated at
Waterloo—their previous glories would have been effaced; the Nile and
Copenhagen never would have been heard of, and the History of the
Peninsular War would never have been read. Byng would be shot again, if
the same circumstances occurred to-morrow.
Nôtre Dame is grand and massive, but it is under repair; the Sainte
Chapelle is most rich and beautiful, but it is under repair; the Palais
de Justice vast and imposing, but it is under repair. So are half the
churches, so is the Palace of the Luxembourg; and almost all the public
buildings are finding the effects of the new Emperor’s rage for
improvement. But this very vehement desire he has to leave a city of
marble which he found of bricks, has considerable disadvantages for the
historical student. The scenes of great events will soon become doubtful
or forgotten. The Temple and Bastille have long disappeared; the Place
de Grève is now an open space, soon to be surrounded by buildings of the
most modern character; the bridges have lost their identity; and, in
short, if this system of substitution goes on for twenty years, there
will be no monuments of Parisian history remaining. The reign, at all
events, of Louis Philippe will be entirely blotted out. The Orleanist
statues are all withdrawn; the names they gave to streets and places
rigorously changed; and the most recent of his predecessors whom Louis
Napoleon condescends to recognise is Louis XIV. That crowned Brummel
still bestrides his steeds in marketplaces and esplanades; but the
series of the Louis after him is completely expunged. The Grand Monarque
is still popular in France; for the people are still fond of the drama,
and are persuaded he was an admirable actor. There is something
elevating, too, in the superbness of the tyranny under which their
ancestors were trodden down. There never was a man, not even Napoleon,
who was so entirely the central figure in the kingdom he ruled; and
certainly there never was a man, except that most selfish and
magnificent of despots, who would not have sunk into insignificance by
the gigantic scale on which everything round him was carried on. Who,
except himself, would not have become ridiculous amid the enormous
spaces of Versailles? Even he must have felt like an ant in a barn, when
he wandered through the interminable galleries and innumerable rooms
which he vainly thought he inhabited. The size of that palace must have
unkinged him, and occasionally he must have sighed for some more
moderate mansion to enable him to recover his self-respect. At the same
time, it is the most imperial residence we ever saw; and nothing shows
so much the illogical tendency of the French mind, as the attempt they
have several times made to establish a republic in Paris, with
Versailles within an hour’s drive. That stately pile is a standing
protest against equality and plainness. While such piles as Versailles
and the Tuileries stand, there will be some person supreme in France.
Even a constitutional king would be overhoused in those enormous
residences. They must be inhabited by the whole nation distilled into
one man.
The present unit prefers St Cloud, and we don’t wonder at the
preference. There are many of the old hereditary mansions of our
nobility of greater extent, but probably not excelling it in elegance
and comfort. A man could keep it up on an income of twenty thousand
a-year; and perhaps Louis Napoleon feels the comparative security of a
house which might be defended by the domestics, and does not need to be
garrisoned by a regiment or two of soldiers.
The grey old mustaches of the French army have disappeared. In their
stead you see thousands upon thousands of lightly-made active young
fellows, from nineteen to twenty-three, with their clothes excellently
made, their surtouts neatly drawn in at the waist—their height as
uniform as possible, at about five feet one—a lively, vigorous,
contented-looking set, with none of the martial precision and combined
motion which gives to our army such an appearance of military power.
Those little French heroes never think of keeping the step, or holding
their muskets all at one elevation—they crowd and roll and hustle—but
they get on. Their pace is very rapid, and instantly on the word of
command they form line, and are as regular and formal as ourselves.
We determined to go to the camp at Satory, where notice was given of an
intended review. A line of two or three thousand tents stretched along
the farther end of the immense plain which forms the western boundary of
Versailles. The hour designated for the review was two in the afternoon,
but on arriving at about half-past twelve we found no signs of any
preparation; on the contrary, the soldiers were all lounging about, or
sunning themselves before their tents. In front of each of the external
lines, which stretched like an interminable street towards the north,
the national ingenuity was wonderfully displayed. The space between the
canvass of the tent and the line of felt was probably not more than four
feet—but what an amazing use of those four feet of ground the gallant
occupiers had made! In each of those little divisions there was a
portion perfectly smooth and covered with sand; in the midst of this
sand were inscribed a vast variety of mottoes, the letters being
composed of parsley-leaves or furze prickles. Of these mottoes the
greater part had reference to the Emperor, but whether the allusion in
the military mind was to the present or the first, we could not guess.
The statues of both, either in common plaster, or occasionally in mud,
from the artistic hand of one of the soldiers, were the unfailing
ornaments of the remaining ground unoccupied by inscriptions. There were
also some models admirably executed of the Arc de Triomphe, and the
Emperor’s tomb in the Invalides. There were also slabs of excellent
imitation-marble, surmounted by the common cast of Napoleon with the
cocked-hat and riding-coat, and on the slab a verse or a quotation. On
one we saw—
“On lira dans l’histoire
De Cæsar, Alexandre, Hannibal,—
Mais nous préférons la gloire
Du petit caporal.”
On another we saw, under a bust of the present Emperor,
“Il a protégé la société et est le sauveur de la patrie.”
On a third, under well-executed military trophies, we read,
“Si vis pacem, bellum para.”
In others the ingenuity was more mechanical than artistic or literary.
There were small fountains sending up tiny columns of water through a
crow-quill to the height of eight or nine inches. The labour of
procuring even this quantity must have been considerable, for we
observed no water near; and as the fountain seemed perpetual, the barrel
which gave it supply must have required frequent replenishment.
But the civility of our military friends was greater, if possible, than
their skill in gardening or hydraulics. When we saw a countenance more
intelligent and good-natured than the rest, we made bold to enter into
conversation, and make inquiries about the forthcoming review. The
witnesses were unanimous in answering, that it was to commence at
half-past two, and that the Emperor and Empress would appear at three.
The French army, we conclude, is recruited, like our own, from all parts
of the country, and the mixture of dialects is accordingly very great.
There were the most convulsive efforts made by several of the men we
spoke to, first, to understand what we said, and, secondly, to make us
understand their reply. Some were from Alsace, and we detected the
German element in the sibilants and gutturals with which they in vain
endeavoured to simplify their discourse; but, whether Parisians or
Alsacians, they were unanimous about the show, and we accordingly
considered ourselves in luck, and moved slowly towards the Champ de
Manœuvre, a plain on the other side of the road, where, they told us,
the display was to take place. Suddenly we heard bugles and drums at the
line of camps which we had left, and, on looking back, we saw blue coats
and red trousers congregating in front, issuing from their tents like a
thousand hives of bees swarming; and after a few rat-tat-tats! and a few
notes of the horn, we saw a long line of soldiers stretching from one
end of the encampment to the other. Motion was communicated to this
immense body, and we waited to see them pass. First, a regiment, in
battle array, with bayonets blazing in the sun, marched solidly and
firmly past, crossed the highway, and were lost to our eyes in the level
ground beyond. Behind them, at a moderate interval, walking, not
marching, fifteen abreast, came a prodigious column of men and officers,
but they had no arms, and apparently very little discipline; laughing,
talking, dropping out of line, but still tripping lightly on, at about
four miles an hour, and they also disappeared in the plateau to the
south. Where could they all be going to? Without muskets, how could they
manage at a review? The artillerymen also were in full force, but they
were dismounted and unarmed, and the whole army, “pioneers and all,”
disappeared, in some marvellous manner, the moment they crossed the
road. We crossed the road too, and found ourselves behind a close line
of armed soldiers, who were drawn up along a narrow pathway. Another
line of soldiers guarded its other side, and the space so kept clear was
occupied by field-officers and aides-de-camp, and occasionally by an
orderly or two, trotting at full speed, and busy in the delivery of
orders and despatches. About fifty yards from where we stood, an immense
curtain was suspended across the whole width of the footpath, and
entirely blocked up the view beyond. This enormous curtain stretched
from side to side of lofty banks, which looked like the entrance to a
deep cutting in a railway; and it was only when either the wind blew the
canvass aside, or the sides of it were partly opened to admit fresh
arrivals from the camp, that we caught momentary views of the most
curious spectacle it ever was our fortune to see. An amphitheatre of
more than Roman size had been hollowed out of the sandy elevation at the
end of the pathway. Row upon row, to an enormous height, were stretched
the seats all round; and placed on them, grim, silent, and expectant,
sat upwards of twenty thousand of the young soldiers of France, all in
uniform, all under military discipline—for their officers maintained
perfect order—and all radiant, as far as we could see, with health and
satisfaction. The curtain again closed, and we were left to the line of
soldiers and the narrow pathway. There were crowds where we stood, but
by the disbursement of some halfpence we got our party comfortably
provided with chairs, and on these miserable rush-bottomed and rickety
articles we stood in the hot sun, till fatigue almost compelled us to
give up all prospect of the review, and wend our way to Versailles. But
the plot began to thicken. A bewhiskered civilian made his appearance at
the end of a little alley, which was exactly opposite to where we stood,
and at his command there emerged from some canvass tents, which we had
not observed under some trees, a group of strangely dressed characters,
which was “a sight to behold” at that time of day, with the sunshine all
round. First, on piebald steeds, with long tails and broken knees,
appeared two or three painted ladies, dressed in red jackets and
spangled velvet petticoats. They spurred and whipped their chargers to
get a little life into them, and took short gallops from the tents
towards the opposite line of soldiers, pulling suddenly up when they
came within an inch or two of the bayonets, and voltiging round with
great elegance and skill. Next came some men, also mounted, dressed like
emirs of the desert, trundling tremendous hoops, of such circumference
that they rose several feet above the horses’ heads. The hoops the
horsemen kept at full speed, twisting and turning them, galloping after
or overtaking them; and all these preliminary rehearsals were carried on
exactly in front of our position, and sufficed to make our time pass
pleasantly enough. The bewhiskered civilian made some signal which we
did not notice, and instantly, dashing through the line of soldiers, the
bespangled ladies burst into the pathway full speed, the curtains were
for a moment withdrawn, and clapping of hands and hearty cheers from the
twenty thousand spectators hailed the commencement of the fêtes of
Satory. This was a field-day, not of the French army, but of Franconi’s
troop, all at the Emperor’s expense.